The Recipe
by Wonkaverse
Summary: Hannibal learns about meat pies while visiting London.


**Disclaimer** : We do not own any elements from the Sweeney Todd or Hannibal franchises.

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Light was receding over Victorian London, the setting sun glowing red through the choking smog and smoke that seemed to fill the streets on this stifling evening. People shuffled their way home, coughing, laughing, yelling as they bustled their individual ways, some dodging horse-drawn carriages to cross the cobblestone streets. Others turned up their collars and hurried past dimmed shop windows, like one particular man who seemed to anxiously look around every few moments before looking down again and continuing on his way. He never stopped walking, though he would slow down as he glanced about, and he would step around people who were walking too closely ahead of him. He appeared to be trying to avoid attention, which was difficult because he was obviously from out of town...he stood taller than most other men, his features sharper, more cunning. His eyes were dark and piercing, the kind that seem to say they've seen so much, without saying anything at all. In spite of his attempts to remain invisible, the man drew more than a few curious stares. A suspicious grocer stepped forward to intercept him, but the man immediately crossed the street, narrowly avoiding hooves of a thoroughbred. On the other side of the road, the grocer shrugged, then went back into his shop.

Safe on the far side, the man sighed, adjusted his waistcoat and trousers, and continued his walk.

"Excuse me sir, you hungry?"

The man bit back a surprised curse, and looked down. There stood a young boy in front of him, perhaps ten or eleven years old. He was dirty, but then again everything was dirty here. Conditions in London were appalling these days. The boy's hair was dark brown, but might have been lighter had it not been for all the soot and grime in it. He also looked pale and thin, like he'd had trouble finding food to eat. The man smiled amiably. "It _is_ the dinner hour, isn't it? I suppose I am a bit hungry, but not as hungry as you must be. Don't your mother and father feed you? You look as thin as a rail!"

The boy flushed with embarrassment. "No sir, I get plenty to eat now. I was an orphan, see, until Mrs. Lovett took me in. She makes meat pies and sells them – and they're good! Won't you come in the shop and have some? It's right over here."

Without waiting for a reply, the boy took the man by the sleeve and led him into the nearest shop, a bell on the door ringing as he opened it.

"My name's Toby, by the way," the boy said, leading the man past crowded tables and booths. He found an empty seat in the corner and bade the man to sit down.

"Thank you," the man said as he removed his coat, draping it on the back of his chair before he sat down. He winked at Toby. "So, what does a connoisseur like yourself order here?"

"Well, all's we got for now is meat pies and ale," Toby said. "Mrs. Lovett says we'll expand the inventory once we get enough money, but for now that's all we've got. Can I get you some?"

"Yes, please."

Toby dashed away, but it was not long before he came back, joined by a woman with a strange, frazzled look about her. The meat pie business must be a tough one. She smiled as she poured a pint of ale and set it on the table before the man.

"Toby says it's your first time here," she said, corking the bottle in her hand. "I'm Mrs. Lovett, the cook and proprietor of this shop. And you are?"

The man took a sip of his ale and set it down before answering.

"Hannibal Lecter."

Mrs. Lovett seemed to blush. "Pardon me for asking, Mr. Lecter, but you're not from around here, are you? Your accent is like nothing I've ever heard."

"It's Lithuanian," he said evenly. "I'm sorry if it's a bit thick. I haven't had much time to practice my English pronunciation."

"And what might you be doing in this hole of a town, then? Not exactly the best place for sightseeing."

"I'm a doctor," Hannibal said. "Just passing through."

"I see." Mrs. Lovett seemed to want to say more, but a customer's shout made her think better of it.

"I'll have Toby bring you a pie in a moment," she said before rushing away to tend to the other customers.

A few minutes later, Toby came back to the table and set a plate with a meat pie down in front of Hannibal.

"And here's your fork and knife," the boy said, handing the utensils to Hannibal. "I think you'll find the pie's most flaky and delicious!" he said, grinning. "It's better than anything! Mrs. Lovett says it's an old family recipe. Someday she'll teach it to me!"

Hannibal looked at him in amusement before cutting into the pie. It certainly smelled delicious, though the spices in it...rosemary and coriander...overpowered the scent of whatever the meat and gravy were. Was it chicken? Lamb? Beef? It was impossible for him to tell, and that was saying something. Hannibal knew he had a rather superior sense of smell. Well, smell or no smell, the pie certainly looked delicious. He scooped up a bite and ate it, the delicate flavors spreading deliciously over his tongue. How warm and flaky the crust was! How savory and sweet the gravy tasted! And the meat...it had to be lamb, because of the texture, but it tasted like beef with a hint of goat...maybe it was a mixture. Was that the lady's secret? Hannibal pondered this as he devoured the pie, one bite after another. He wondered if Mrs. Lovett would share the recipe with him. Maybe if he promised to only use it at home.

He finished his food and drink and gave some money to Toby.

"Keep the change," he said kindly, and as they boy mooned over the extra pennies, Hannibal left the table and swept down the side corridor he'd seen Mrs. Lovett disappear into. It led to a short flight of stairs, then to a heavy metal door with a little window at face level. He peered into the window and saw nothing but a large stone basement, with a furnace or oven to one side, a rack full of meat pies, and a meat grinder on the other side. He tried the door handle and found that it was unlocked...he pushed the door open, and it swung, creaking on its hinges. Hannibal hoped to pop in, glance at a recipe note or book, or maybe see something written on a board. He strode over to the oven, but saw nothing. Suddenly his nose was assailed with a horrible odor...it smelled like rotting fish and curdled milk and sickness and death. It was a smell so strong, he wondered how he'd missed it, and then he saw the meat grinder...or more specifically, what was in the meat grinder. He nearly gagged in disgust. There were body parts...human body parts, jutting out at odd angles and flecked with red spots of blood and gore. And in the far corners of the room, where there were grates for sewage and water to seep into, were piles of bones and puddles of blood. It was an OCD nightmare.

Just then, a trap door in the ceiling dropped, and a man's body fell through headfirst. He was bleeding from his carotid artery, though if he survived that he would have been killed by fall and hitting his head. His skull cracked against the pavement with a sickening sound not unlike the breaking of an egg. Lecter was too preoccupied with the mess to be bothered much by it.

The door to the room swung open again, and Mrs. Lovett noticed Hannibal at once, her eyes round with fear...and panic. She unsteadily drew a carving knife from her belt.

"Dr. Lecter, you shouldn't be here...now you've gone and done it."

Hannibal tore his attention away from the mess in the corner. His face slowly broke into a smile, his eyes now darker than they'd been before.

"Have I?"

He suddenly rushed at Mrs. Lovett and wrestled the knife from her hands. She screamed and batted at him, but he shoved her up against the door, pressing the knife to her throat.

"I think you are the one who's done it, Mrs. Lovett." Hannibal put his nose by her neck and took a deep breath, tasting her perfume. He paused.

"Lavender with a touch of ambergris. An excellent blend," he observed. "You have good taste, Mrs. Lovett."

He removed the knife from her neck and stepped back, motioning for her to move away from the door. She complied, and he opened it.

"I want you to know that your secret recipe is safe with me," he said, tossing the knife away. "I am not one to condemn someone for…recycling. But it might do you well to tidy up."

Before he left, he flashed her a grim smile and murmured,

"Thanks for the pie...it was delicious."


End file.
